


Farewell Tour:  Part I

by Avery11



Series: Farewell Tour [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 07:12:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6274786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is retiring, but he has one more mission to complete. </p><p>This is a three-part series. I wrote the first section nearly two years ago, and promised to finish the series as soon as possible. My apologies for the delay but here--finally--is the rest of the tale.</p><p>The entire story may be read as either Gen or Slash, and will make perfect sense, whichever filter you use. Love is love is love.</p><p>This is Part I.</p><p>Part II is here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12816015</p><p>Part III is here:http://archiveofourown.org/works/12816027</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farewell Tour:  Part I

** **

 

 

Illya stared down at the document before him. A single sheet of paper, three short sentences. A bold line at the bottom, awaiting his signature. His vision blurred; he blinked to clear it.

“Second thoughts?” Olivia Dancer's warm brown eyes studied him from across the table. “If you need more time, sir –?”

 _So like her mother_. “No.” He signed the document with a flourish, and spun the completed paperwork around the conference table, officially closing a chapter in his life. He sat back, feeling an impossible weight lift off his shoulders.

Olivia affixed her signature beneath Illya's, and passed the document to the waiting attaché. “Please see that each Section One head receives a copy, Kwame.” The tall man nodded and slipped silently from the room. The doors whooshed closed.

She stood, smoothing her skirt, and went to pour herself a cup of tea from the silver samovar by the window. “I believe that's everything, sir. The codes will be changed as soon as you leave.”

“I understand.” Illya ran a hand through silvered hair, and took in the details of the room for the final time.

Waverly's office – he still thought of it in those terms – had changed over the years. The bank of computers that had dominated the far wall was gone, along with the old Telex machine, its miles of ticker tape perpetually pooling on the carpet. Technology had evolved since the Sixties, and the old machines had been replaced numerous times in the intervening years. These days, a state-of-the-art transparent computer touchscreen hung upon the wall – a technological marvel providing instantaneous access to any piece of information, anywhere in the world.

The wall map was gone too, consigned to storage in the vast basement labyrinth of HQ, along with the communications console where Waverly's humidor once sat, reeking of Isle of Dogs Number Twenty-Two. For an instant, Illya imagined he could smell the foul aroma of the old man's favorite custom-blend tobacco, could hear his satisfied sigh, tendrils of grey smoke wreathing his tired face –

“Sir?”

The memory faded.

Olivia was holding out a teacup and saucer. Steam rose from the dark, fragrant brew. Illya accepted the cup with a nod, and sipped; the corners of his mouth turned up in pleasure. “Russian Caravan. My favorite.”

“That's the last of it, I'm afraid. I'd have ordered more, but –”

“– but the next inhabitant of this office prefers coffee.”

Olivia eyed him thoughtfully, sensing perhaps, the complex flow of thoughts vying for attention behind her superior's enigmatic smile. “You were a million miles away just then.”

“Was I?”

“Pleasant thoughts?”

“Private ones.” Illya returned her scrutiny in kind. “You seem a trifle unsettled this morning, Ms. Dancer. Something on your mind?”

“Not really. It's just that – well -"

"Yes?"

"To be honest, it feels strange to think of UNCLE going forward without you, sir. A lot of us came into the organization on your watch. You handpicked most of the current Section Two operatives, myself included. I –” She hesitated. “I don't suppose there's a chance you'll change your mind and stay?”

He shook his head. “Three decades in the center seat is long enough for anyone. It's time for me to go.”

“You'd be surprised at how many people would disagree with you.”

“That is their prerogative.”

“So you're really determined to retire?”

“I am.” His eyes slid away.

Outside the window, the sun rose over the United Nations building, bathing its sleek surface in golden light. It was going to be another beautiful morning. “I will miss the view.”

“But not the job?” Olivia asked. It wasn't really a question, and Illya didn't bother to answer. “What will you do now?”

“With all my free time, you mean? Move to Sussex and become a beekeeper, I suppose.”

Olivia giggled, and Illya was reminded once again of her mother. “Sherlock Kuryakin? It has a nice ring to it.”

“Actually, I thought I might travel for a bit. See the world.”

“Travel? I'd have thought you'd have had enough of bad hotel rooms after your years in Enforcement.”

“You'd think so, wouldn't you? Oddly, I find that I am eager to be on my way.”

“'On your –?' Wait a minute. You're not planning on skipping your retirement dinner, are you? Because UNCLE has spared no expense to honor you.”

“A study in excess, those ceremonies. Tedious speeches, terrible food –”

Olivia's eyes narrowed. “– and far too many goodbyes.”

He shrugged. “That too, I suppose. In any case, I believe I've earned the right to slip away quietly if I choose.”

She sighed, knowing it was useless to argue once her superior's mind was made up. She reconciled herself to several hours of explanatory phone calls. “I hope you realize there'll be hell to pay.”

“Undoubtedly. I am sorry to lay that at your doorstep.”

“I'll manage. Truth to tell, most of us would do anything to escape the breast of rubberized chicken. Not to mention all that mind-numbing rhetoric.”

Illya smiled. “Distaste for pomp and circumstance was one of your mother's bellwethers as I recall.”

“I remember.”

He rose, muscles protesting the movement as they did all too frequently of late. “It's time I was going.”

“So soon?”

“Inertia is an unproductive state, and I have packing to finish.” In a single, smooth motion, he removed his identification badge, a discreet silver pin bearing the number **1,** and laid it on the table. “Give Mr. Ka'apanunu my best when you see him. I fear he's going to need it.”

Olivia reached into the pocket of her blazer. “I have something for you. A going-away present of sorts.”

“Really, Ms. Dancer, there was no need to --”

She held out her hand. A yellow plastic triangle bearing the number **11** lay in her palm.

Illya sucked in a shocked breath. “Where –?”

“They mothballed all the old badges ages ago, of course, but I came upon this one down in Storage. It must have been packed away with Mr. Waverly's papers after he –“ She shrugged. “Anyway, I thought you might like to have it, for old time's sake.”

The sight of Napoleon's old badge after so many years nearly undid him. It was like encountering a time warp, or a black hole. His heart leapt, thoughts spiraling back across the decades. Images flooded his consciousness: memories of bold actions taken, of daring deeds done, of soaring triumphs and unbearable tragedies. Memories so achingly vivid and real, he felt he could reach out and touch them. And at the center of it all, the face of a man – dark-haired, debonair and oh-so young, brown eyes twinkling with warmth and kindness.

_Oh, Napoleon._

He accepted the badge, felt its familiar weight in his hand. With trembling fingers, he traced the familiar number etched into its surface.

“It's a wonderful gift, Olivia. Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “And now –“

“– you must be going. Of course, sir. Shall I walk you out?”

“No need. I know the way.”

Olivia took Illya's large hands in her own; full lips brushed one pale cheek. “Godspeed, sir. Have a good life.”

He pressed a button to summon the office's private elevator. With a final, backward glance, he stepped inside. The door slid closed behind him, and the elevator began it's long descent.

“ _Do svidanya_ , Olivia Dancer,” Illya whispered to the gunmetal grey walls. “I do not think we shall meet again.”

*/*/*/

 Continue to PART 2: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12816015


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